


Arguing with Mabari

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (Mutual) Pining, Canon Dialogue, Cute Alistair, Drunk Alistair, F/M, Falling In Love, Fereldans and their dogs, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jealousy, OC: Rosslyn Cousland - Freeform, POV Alistair, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cousland origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: An old Fereldan saying suggests mabari are clever enough to speak, but wise enough not to. Now his feelings for his fellow warden are deepening beyond mere friendship, Alistair is beginning to see how very true that is, though the proverb leaves out that - at least in the case of one particular mabari - they also get very, very jealous.





	1. Clever Enough To Speak

**Author's Note:**

> My idiot dog also gets jealous when I give someone else attention, and I miss him. To combat that, here is some pure nonsensical fluff.
> 
> Comments and kudos are food and wine to us humble fanfic writers, and are highly appreciated ;)

The dog was doing it on purpose. Alistair was sure of it. Every evening in camp, Cuno snuffled about his business making sure everyone was still aware of his presence so he could demand his accustomed scratch on the rump. And then, as soon as Alistair made any sort of motion towards Rosslyn, whether to hand her a dish of stew or ask her for the sewing kit she kept in her pack, the dog would get up, and – glaring pointedly all the while – plonk himself in a very deliberate way between his mistress and the man who was trying to talk to her.

At first, Alistair shrugged off this behaviour as a simple expression of dislike. Mabari were known to be particular about their people, after all, and Rosslyn had been through enough to make Cuno more protective than a normal dog. As time went on, however, and Alistair found himself more and more preoccupied with thoughts of his fellow Grey Warden and the increasing number of casual touches and lingering glances shared between them, a different suspicion took hold in his mind: maybe the dog was _jealous_.

And if Cuno was jealous of the attention Rosslyn gave him, might that mean she…?

Alistair’s stomach curled into knots as he stared at the dark oilskin walls of his tent. The thought made his heart beat all the faster because it was tied up with his feelings for Rosslyn, who only had to smile at him these days for his lungs to suddenly forget how they worked. If Cuno was trying to keep them separated, then it implied _she_ could have similar feelings for _him_. Even if he could never see someone as graceful as Rosslyn forgetting to breathe just because somebody smiled at her.

In his defence, she had a very pretty smile.

Armed with this theory, over the following days Alistair studied Cuno, and after much thought decided to use what was known in alchemical circles as the _scientific method_. First, he approached Cuno with a nice, juicy hunk of venison to establish a baseline, and since Rosslyn had taught him to accept food from any member of their party, it was a good way to establish the dog’s true feelings. Of course, having grown up around dogs, Alistair knew that offers of a free meal were often enough to distract even mabari from their grudges, so later the same day he offered to play tug-o’-war with a tattered piece of hide. The game ended after twenty minutes with Cuno’s tongue lolling in pleasure as Alistair petted him in all the places big dogs loved, their relationship clearly an amicable one.

That, however, changed instantaneously when Rosslyn called him to the other side of their midday camp to help her consult the map. The dog bristled before trotting over to his mistress ahead of Alistair and butting insistently against her leg.

“Are you alright?” she asked when she caught sight of the odd expression on her fellow Warden’s face.

“Me? I’m just contemplating the critical nature of our cheese supplies,” he replied, hoping the brightness of his smile would deflect any suspicions she might have. “We’re running low, you see.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder?” she teased. “Don’t worry, we’ll be coming to a village in the next day or so, so we can restock. I just need a second opinion on where we are.”

He was careful not to reach out to her as she illustrated their position with a plucked stalk of grass, keeping his fingers laced firmly behind him instead of resting against the small of her back as he sorely wanted to do. When she impatiently batted away a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek he felt himself swayed by the scent of lavendis in her soap and forced himself to turn his head away and breathe.

“Am I boring you?” she enquired.

Heat surged to his cheeks. Damn that tiny lopsided smirk of hers. “Of course not! I was… merely scanning the horizon. A village the size of Southford probably has a forge, or at least a baker, so our best bet would be to follow any signs of smoke we see. Don’t you think?” he added with an uneasy gulp.

She chuckled, leaning in closer. “That might be easier if we weren’t surrounded by a lot of really tall trees.”

He didn’t miss the way her gaze flickered down to his mouth, but before he could do anything other than feel his lungs seize up _again_ , Sten crashed her way through the moment with a grumble and the demand that they start walking again. With their privacy spoiled, Rosslyn moved, blushing, to resume her position at the head of their group, leaving Alistair to watch after her with an emotion tied up somewhere between frustration and enlightenment.

Cuno rumbled next to him, his stare baleful and his jowls quivering in the preliminaries of a snarl.

Alistair scowled back. _I’m onto you, Dog._

* * *

 

The situation came to a head two days later in the taproom of The Cockspurs, Southford’s only tavern. The place was noisy, lit by greasy torches set in sconces along the walls and possessed of the sweet barley odour common to all inns where the soft furnishings have been doused in generations of spilt ale. Locals filled most of the space, but Southford was on enough of a thoroughfare that bands of well-armed strangers were not an uncommon sight, and so their party was scattered among the patrons, more relaxed than they would have been sleeping on the cold hard ground in the woods.

Alistair slipped his coppers over the counter and hefted his two foaming mugs of local brew with a nod to the bartender, noting as he dodged around a local drunk that Wynne was already on her third pint of the evening. Leliana had commandeered an old _pouffe_ by the fire and was strumming tunes on her lute, playing requests and laughing with the patrons. To nobody’s surprise, Zevran was entertaining the bar maids with card tricks and feats of juggling, skills no doubt picked up on the streets of Antiva. There was no sign of either Sten or Morrigan, but then neither of them were overly fond of people, and they could take care of themselves well enough that Alistair wasn’t worried.

Finally, he spotted his target over the heads of the milling crowd. He made his way over to the corner where Rosslyn sat with Cuno snoring at her feet, frowning as she took stock of their remaining share of coin. Evidently they had spent more than they intended at the market that day, and his step faltered as he thought guiltily about the the extensive repairs to his shield that had robbed them of an extra day’s food. Then she glanced up and beamed when she noticed him, and the world fell to rights again.

“Don’t tell me, we’re poor again,” he joked as he set one of the pewter tankards on the scrubbed wooden table before her.

She reached out and dragged it closer. “Afraid so. There’s all the costs of the repairs we needed, and then there’s the food bill.” A sigh heaved from her chest. “If this is what it costs to fee _two_ Grey Wardens, I hate to think how much of the Treasury Cailan spent at Ostagar. Sorry, that was insensitive,” she added, seeing the momentary tightening of his fingers around his drink.

“It’s alright,” he answered. “That’s actually a pretty good point. But we’ve got enough to see us to the next town, right?”

“More or less.”

He nudged her shoulder. “Hey, don’t look so down. We wouldn’t have nearly as much as this if you weren’t so weirdly good at finding things.”

“Did you just call me weird?” she challenged, smirking. She started to lean towards him but got distracted by the wide, blunt head suddenly weighting down her thigh. “Oh, woken up, have you?” she crooned at her Mabari. “Who’s a good boy?”

“Face it, dear lady, you’re worse than a magpie,” Alistair teased. He watched Cuno shove his head further into his mistress’ lap, but all the dog received was an absent rub behind the ears as Rosslyn turned her attention back to the man sitting next to her.

“Such impertinence,” she huffed, though there was no real malice behind the words. She shrugged and raised her tankard to offer him a toast. “To magpies!”

“To magpies,” he agreed, tapping his mug against hers before taking a deep swig. The amber liquid slid down his throat in welcome gulps, cool and just bitter enough to be refreshing in the overheated room. Next to him, Rosslyn sighed in contentment. He turned to ask her opinion of the ale, but stopped short.

“You’ve um…”

“What?”

“You’ve got…” He waved his hand in the vague direction of her mouth. “Foam.”

“Huh? Oh.”

She wiped the froth from her upper lip with the back of her hand and the two of them spent the next few moments in awkward silence as Alistair scrambled for a neutral topic of conversation. Cuno used the interruption to squeeze under the table and push his bulk between them, rubbing his head up Rosslyn’s leg with an insistent whine when her fingers were too slow to work into the loose skin at his neck.

“It’s nice to get a break from everything,” Alistair finally managed, eyes narrowed at the dog, who had twisted around with a triumphant expression that seemed to say, _She still loves me more than you_.

Rosslyn sagged against the wall and groaned. “I’m just glad I’m going to be sleeping in a bed for a change.”

“Whaaat, and miss out on all those comfortable rocks digging into your spine?”

He was grateful for her chuckle then, because it meant she had missed the flush creeping up his neck at the thought of her _in a bed_ , her hair mussed and her eyes bleary with sleep. Did she wear nightclothes or did she sleep…?

 _Argh_.

Such thoughts were _not_ appropriate. Not that it stopped his treacherous imagination, or the blood that roared in his ears when she rested her head sleepily – trustingly – on his shoulder. The movement had become familiar over the past few weeks, comforting even, but the warmth of her weight still sent little jolts of electricity down to his toes.

“You get used to rocks,” she told him with a sigh. “It’s more the rain that – Ow! _What_ _is it, Cuno_?” She jerked upright as one the dog’s heavy front paws landed squarely in her crotch. He had squirmed out from under the table and was trying to climb into her lap as if he weren’t the size of a small pony, pushing himself upwards so he could lick her face. But his bulk and the height of the seat provided and unforeseen obstacle, and his grumbles climbed in frustration as his back legs failed to find purchase on the edge of the bench.

“Andraste’s blood, what has gotten into you?” Rosslyn growled, struggling to push him back. “Get _down_!”

Immediately, Cuno stilled. His stubby ears flicked back in alarm at his mistress’ tone. His jowls quivered like the bottom lip of a child about to cry.

“I said, get down,” she repeated, less harshly this time. Around the room, the eyes of many of the patrons had turned to observe the scene, and their scrutiny made heat rise to the tips of her ears.

Cuno obeyed. He hunkered down on his haunches, head held low so he could employ the full effect of his wide, liquid-black eyes. The nub of his tail wiggled contritely under the table as he whined.

“Honestly.” Rosslyn ruffled her mabari’s ears. “What’s the matter?”

Cuno whined again and turned an accusatory look on Alistair, who sat uneasily with his hand rubbing across his collarbone.

“I might have an explanation.”

“Yes?”

Taking a deep breath, Alistair stammered out his theory. He winced as he mentioned his observations and how he had manipulated events to make sure, preferring to look at his fingers twisting in his lap rather than whatever emotions must be warring on Rosslyn’s face. That also meant he didn’t have to watch as he contorted his sentences to avoid the heart of the matter, namely his growing attraction and the question of whether or not she returned it. It felt too much like he was pressuring her, and the thought made something hot squirm beneath his ribs.

When his voice finally fizzled out, he risked a peek sideways and saw her frowning as she cradled her dog’s head in her palms. Hunched forward, every line in her shoulders bunched tight with an emotion he didn’t dare name. Chatter rose around them in a gentle hum; Leliana cascaded through the final notes of an Orlesian ballad; a bubble of cheers rose up from the corner of the bar where Zevran flirted so easily with the innkeeper’s staff.

“Rosslyn?”

Her gaze slid over to him, but skittered away again as colour bloomed across her cheeks. “I’m…” She cleared her throat. “I’m tired. I… think I’m going to go to bed.”

“Right, yes, good idea,” he babbled, watching her stand and feeling his happiness trickle away like cold sweat down the back of his neck. “See you in the morning?”

She turned back, the blush standing out red against her pale skin. A bashful smile played at the corners of her mouth and hope swelled again in his chest. “Bright and early.”

Only when she had disappeared upstairs (with the dog padding triumphantly at her heels) did Alistair feel it safe enough to drop his head back against the wall with a heavy, painful _thump_. He repeated the motion several times. _Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._ Clearly the only option now was to drown his embarrassment in ale and hope he became so drunk he could stumble across a well, then fall into it and drown before having to face her again. 

Knowing his augmented Grey Warden tolerance for alcohol, he had a long way to go.

* * *

 

What felt like hours later, Alistair stumbled along the squeaking floorboards in the inn’s guest wing. He had long since lost track of the rest of his companions, not to mention the number of pints he had managed to put away thanks to his Warden appetite, and the bar had mostly been empty by the time he decided enough was enough and it was time to sleep.

He rubbed his eyes as a yawn overtook him, his balance knocked off-kilter by the foggy haze behind his eyes. Something solid lay across the width of the corridor. Of course Alistair failed to notice this until his shins knocked against it and sent him sprawling with a yelp.

Wait. The yelp didn’t belong to him. The curses and loud invocations to the Maker, certainly, but the yelp – when he twisted around to see what was the matter he discovered Cuno had been sleeping in the hall, tucked against the _outside_ of Rosslyn’s door.

“So you’re in the kennel too, huh?” he asked the affronted dog. “Well, you did stand on her. With claws. In a very… you know what, I’m not going to finish that sentence.”

Cuno harrumphed and got up so he could rearrange himself on the most comfortable patch of floor, looking so dejected by his fall from grace that Alistair couldn’t help but be sympathetic. Ignoring the sober part of his brain that longed for the softness of the mattress in his room down the hall, he flopped down by the dog’s head, stretched his long legs out as far as the width of the corridor would allow, and waited for his head to stop spinning. Cuno eyed him balefully, unimpressed that the man had failed to notice the determined effort to ignore him.

“You know, I can understand why you’re doing it,” the Warden told the dog conversationally. “Why you want to protect her. She’s special, isn’t she?”

New alertness twitched in Cuno’s ears as he listened to the slightly slurred voice.

“I’ll tell her that, you know, when I can get the words out.” Alistair felt his hands wander to the comfort of the loose fur on the mabari’s neck. _I’m talking to a dog, Zevran would have a field day._ “I really, really like her, and I want you to know that. You’ve been such a good boy, keeping her going, making her happy.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. For a moment his mind wandered, trying to recall how he got the lump on the back of his skull. “What I’m trying to say is that _I_ want to make her happy, too,” he told the dog. “She’s the only good thing in all of this, and when she smiles, it’s just…” His drunken mind fumbled for the right words, then gave up. “I’m not going to take her away from you, and I’m not going to hurt her. At least, I hope not. Anything could happen and I – I can’t promise to keep her safe. But I can try, if you’ll let me.”

The mabari cocked his head, dark eyes searching, nose quivering for any trace of a lie. _Intelligent enough to speak, and wise enough not to_. Very slowly, with the faintest wag of his stumpy tail, he stretched out his snout and licked the seam of Alistair’s trouser leg before shifting his weight against the new, convenient meat pillow and curling up to sleep. Something creaked behind the door Alistair leaned on, which might have been a dragon or a footstep or the building settling, but, feeling sleepy, he didn’t much care. Within a moment he forgot the noise, and his snores soon joined those of the dog who had decided to call a truce.


	2. Wise Enough Not To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair is finally put out of his misery and gets to kiss the girl.

_Who would have thought a few simple sentences would cause so much trouble?_

Alistair dragged a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to fidget. He hardly saw the beautiful Bloomingtide sunset, or the way small, humming insects bobbed among the carpet of wildflowers at his feet.

“Alright, that wasn’t working for you.” He wanted to get the words right. “Should I try again?”

He glanced at the dog next to him, but Cuno only yawned massively at him, then settled his head on his paws in a defeated sort of way, looking unimpressed.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered, before turning back and scratching his head. “I just don’t know why it’s so _hard_. We’ve been here what feels like hours, and I can’t even work out what to say to you, so never mind how ridiculous I’ll sound when I… Oh, it’s going to be a disaster.”

This time, he gave in to the temptation and paced, and tried very hard to put his feelings into words. Whenever Rosslyn talked to him, or looked at him, or even just existed within his general vicinity, a pleasant, bubbly feeling erupted in his chest. His insides would twist, and blood would start to rush through his ears loudly enough to drown out all the sensible voices in his head that liked to remind him about place, and duty, and the archdemon waiting for them at the end of the road. About how intimacy was the last thing he should want while on a dangerous quest to save the world.

And every time he looked at her, those voices became harder and harder to listen to.

He had tried asking Leliana for advice, singling her out as the safest option compared to Zevran (who would say something lewd), Morrigan (who hardly needed extra fodder for her disdain), or Sten (did Sten even have emotions?). He had regretted it almost instantly. Though he had tried to ask only general questions in the hopes of not being entirely transparent, she had delivered her replies with a smug, feline smirk that let him know she knew _exactly_ who he was talking about. And as if that hadn’t been mortifying enough, she had all but told him Rosslyn found his clumsiness endearing, which he didn’t dare believe.

How could he? The morning after all-but confessing his feelings the first time, he had woken up outside her door with a throbbing headache and a queasy stomach, only to find when he stood up and pushed a hand out for something to lean against, the door was not where it should have been. He remembered Rosslyn had barely been able to utter a word of surprise before all balance left him and he went sprawling on top of her. They had gone down together with a dull thud against the varnished floorboards, and in the ensuing kerfuffle, he had ended up in her lap, one arm curled around her waist and the other braced against her thigh, her knees pressing into his ribs in a position that whited his mind worse than the hangover.

It had taken a full day and a half for her to speak to him after that.

But, since then… They were getting close, weren’t they? They sat next to each other at dinner, shared jokes. Sometimes she would linger when she bade him goodnight, her brows knotted together in a delicate frown as if trying to puzzle something out, but she never said anything. He wanted to ask, but her face in the firelight, how the flames warmed her skin and made her eyes dance silver, her thigh pressed lightly alongside his, and the hope it wasn’t accidental…

“Gah! Even when she’s not here I can’t think straight! You could at least pretend to be paying attention,” he added to the dog.

Cuno remained unimpressed. He licked a paw.

The others were noticing. He thought he would die of embarrassment that morning when Wynne, not troubling to keep her voice down, sidled up to him to point out how he was ‘enraptured’ by Rosslyn’s ‘swaying hips’. He might have salvaged the situation with some quick thinking had he failed to notice the crimson flush creeping up Rosslyn’s neck, because once he knew she was listening, all ability for coherent speech flew out of his head. If she didn’t think him a lecher before, she certainly did now.

And so as soon as they set up camp for the night, he had collected the dog (who had become far more friendly towards him since their shared night in the hallway) and hiked to a secluded field out of earshot of the others, determined to put an end to his misery one way or the other. He would find the words, he would tell her, and he would hope for the best.

“I can do this.”

The dog waited patiently.

“Right, here goes.” He cleared his throat, picturing clear grey eyes and a lopsided smirk. “Rosslyn, ahem – we’ve been travelling together for some time now and I wanted to tell you – to make sure you knew – I’m glad you’re _you_ and not some other Grey Warden.” He sucked in a breath, wincing. “No, you’re right, I know, that definitely sounded better in my head.”

He tried again.

“I meant to say, I want you to know, you mean… a great deal to me.”

Cuno sat up, ears cocked with interest, which Alistair chose to take as encouragement. Heat crept to the tips of his ears as he measured what he would say next, but now that he had a direction, it felt _right_.

“I was wondering – all this time we’ve spent together – you know, the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming us – will you miss it, once it’s over?” he asked. His entire face was burning now, but he _would_ get through this. “Because I know it might… sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other very long, but I’ve come to care for you. A lot.”

With a low grunt, Cuno hauled himself to his feet and ambled over, slanting his body across Alistair’s legs in clear invitation for a scratch. Unwilling to be knocked over by the dog’s bulk, he crouched down, scrubbing his fists through the thick fur. There was a flow to what he was saying now, as if each word leant confidence to the next.

“I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together – I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself.” The confidence ebbed. “Am I – fooling myself?” he asked the dog. “You’re her best friend – other than Leliana, I guess. Do you think she might ever feel the same way about me?”

Cuno squirmed around in an attempt to lick his face, snuffling happily with his tail wagging hard enough to make his whole back end wiggle. It made Alistair feel a little better, even if it might only be the dog’s way of telling him it was time for dinner.

“That’ll have to do, I suppose.”

From behind him came the very distinct sound of a throat being cleared.

He froze. _Please let it not be Morrigan_.

He stood.

He turned.

It wasn’t Morrigan. It was worse.

“R-Rosslyn,” he stammered. “I didn’t see – umm –” _Say something clever, dammit!_ “Hi.”

“I’m not interrupting am I?” she asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Was there maybe a slight hint of pink staining her cheeks? “I knew you two had settled your differences but I didn’t realise you’d become _this_ close.”

“Huh?”

Teasing. She was teasing him, which meant she wasn’t angry, which meant – what did that mean? His brain seemed unable to process anything beyond _she’s here she’s here she’s here_ but he was sure he ought to respond, and soon, because that was how conversations worked. Right?

And then he realised the reason for the smirk. She had been standing there and she had seen him confessing deep romantic yearnings… to a mabari. How Fereldan.

“I –” He tried again. “Maker’s breath, this isn’t what it looks like.”

Her head cocked in a frown; Alistair wondered if he’d said something wrong. Belatedly, he realised the dog had left a film of slobber coating the right side of his face, and as she emerged from the treeline towards him he hastily raised a sleeve to dash the slime away. While he was occupied, Cuno, thoroughly pleased with himself, bounded happily to his mistress’s side so she could give him a welcome rub behind the ears. Alistair scowled. The dog had done this on purpose. Somehow.

Rosslyn gave the dog a final pat and he snuffled away through the grass, apparently on the track of something more interesting than the mounting tension between the two Grey Wardens. When she stood, the fading sun wove golden strands into her black hair, and as she stepped closer the rosy flush spreading over her cheeks was enough to send a tingle through Alistair’s limbs.

“It’s getting late,” she said. “I was worried when you didn’t come back.”

And suddenly it was easy. He didn’t even need some contrived excuse to get her away from the others – she had come looking for him, and she was here, and they were stood in a sweeping glade in a dusk that smelled of summer flowers.

“You were worried?” he asked. He took a halting step forward.

She nodded.

He laughed. “I was… I mean…” Without his armour, the breeze tickled through the thin fabric of his shirt, but it was a good thing, because he was too warm anyway and they were barely three feet apart now. Could she feel how fast his heart was beating?

“Exactly how much of that did you hear?”

“Most of it, I think.” She fiddled with the frayed edge of her sleeve, darting shy glances to him and then away. “It was, um, very nice – what you said. Did you… did you mean it?”

They stood so close now he caught her scent, a soft mix of sweetgrass and something floral, and the words scattered from his mind like leaves in an autumn wind. He swallowed, scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t just be a messy blurt of all the things twisting in his chest, but before he could open his mouth the dog sidled up behind his mistress and gave a calculated _shove_ to the back of her knees.

With a startled yelp, Rosslyn toppled, straight into his arms.

Stunned, all they could do was stare at each other. Her hands had flashed out and caught his shoulders, while his had settled on her waist, as if they should have always been there. Through her shirt, he felt the tense of muscles hardened by battle, felt the _warmth_ of her, and a softness he would never have thought to imagine on his own.

“Are you… alright?” he ventured. The fall had put her flush against him; her breasts pushed against him with every unsteady breath.

“That mongrel’s days are numbered,” she growled, eyes narrowed at the dog who sat at a safe distance, surveying his handiwork with a wide, lolling grin. But she was blushing, _and she hadn’t pulled away_.

Chuckling, Alistair lifted a hand to brush ever-so-gently against her jaw, nerves fizzing when her eyes snapped to his. He had dreamed of this – well, the dog hadn’t been involved, and he had been able to get his words out, but the essentials were the same.

“Rosslyn… I meant every word of what I said. I hope that’s alright.”

Her skin was soft against the calloused pad of his thumb; now that he was touching her, he didn’t ever want to stop.

“It is,” she said. “And I –” Her blush deepened. “You’re not fooling yourself, Alistair. I care for you, too.”

This time, his lungs might stop working for good.

“Really?”

She nodded, her smile more radiant than he had ever seen, inexorably drawing him in.

“That’s… good to know.”

He kissed her before fully realising the compulsion, and then his mind went blank. Rosslyn’s lips felt like silk against his own, warm, good, her body pressed against him so close he could feel every inch of her down to the knees and Maker, he hadn’t even _asked_ if she wanted to kiss him. He didn’t know how to kiss anyone in the first place – how were you supposed to practice something like that?

Before panic could overwhelm him, Alistair pulled away. He took in the tense line of her shoulders, the way her hands gripped the loose folds of his shirt, and wondered if the dazed expression on her face would count for or against him.

“That – that wasn’t too soon, was it?” he checked.

An unsteady breath puffed against his lips. “I don’t know,” she said, and his heart dropped like a stone.

“Rosslyn, I’m so sorry, I –”

Her hand tangled in his hair when he tried to move away, face burning, hoping the rest of his life wouldn’t be entirely ruined. A slow grin was spreading over her face – wait, a grin?

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “But you may need to kiss me again, just to make sure.”

“What?”

He barely had time to register the roll of her eyes before she was pulling his mouth back down to hers.


End file.
